The Villains' Club
by voxinatwitch
Summary: Multiverse Drabble Series... On weekends, the villains of the multiverse meet to unwind and relax at the height of debauchery...or is it? Can so many villains in one room go over too well? Badguys include: Crowley the King of Hell from Supernatural, Dr. Who's The Master, and The Dark Lord himself from Harry Potter
1. Chapter 1: Club Misanthropy

Crowley was slumped in his easy chair, grumbling inebriatedly at the TV screen as he flicked through channels, irritation at the lack of quality programming.

"Really? TV just keeps getting bloody worse every night, I swear. I'll have to do something about this. Maybe start my own network…HelliVision—" He mused aloud, but stopped as a commercial caught his interest.

"Here at the villains' club, we hold ourselves to the highest standard of debauchery and maliciousness—" The announcer declared.

"Oh, really?" He asked, turning up the volume a bit so he could hear over the demons in the next room.

" It's where all the self-respecting villains go on Friday nights. Bring your maniacal laughter, and go back to your lair with brilliantly nefarious new ideas to torment your underlings for the coming week! This month, held in the common house at the most happening spot in the multiverse, Club Misanthropy!"

"Misanthropy, eh?" Crowley nodded. "I like that name, very much…."

* * *

><p>Three Friday nights later:<p>

* * *

><p>Crowley sat kicked back in the lounge chair, fingertips pressed to his temples. The commercial from a few weeks before had conveniently neglected to mention the terrible cacophony that passed for music around here. It was horrid even by Hell's standards, he decided, cringing as he tried to block out the incessant, maddeningly repetitive pounding of formless bass from the speakers behind him. It had been going on for a few minutes now, since he'd arrived, and was loud enough it made his glass of whiskey vibrate in time with the thrumming.<p>

He took another swallow, his face contorting in annoyance as a particularly loud thump shook the room. He looked down moodily at his glass of Craig as if studying it would help calm his nerves. Instead, it only served to further his agitation, as he realized belatedly, a series of fine spiderweb cracks were forming in the glass.

"Bloody club," he muttered, reaching for a napkin on the arm of the lounge chair he was in, but too late—

As the bass hit a crescendo, the glass shattered in his fingers, whiskey and shards of glass landing on his lap.

"Fuck all," he spat the words, leaping from his seat in a tantrum of rage.

"Who thought it was a bloody good idea to leave_ him _in charge of the music this week?!" Crowley roared, grabbing the cord to the speakers and giving it an overzealous yank, so the plug pulled out of the socket in the wall.

He sighed, satisfaction written in his smile as the dull squeak of the speakers dying as the cacophony stopped.

"I did," said a cool voice from across the room as the music died, its owner turning slowly on his bar stool to reveal his grotesquely pallid features.

"Hey! I'll have you know, I worked very, _very _hard on this!" The Master protested angrily from where he sat in the DJ chair.

"Oh, hello, Voldy," Crowley said. "I intended no disrespect, but it's just that it's in terrible taste, you see," he continued, "The repetition of that same bit of noise, if one could even begin to call it music, over and over ad nauseum, why it's enough to drive any self-respecting villain mad."

"Don't you see, though? That's rather the point," The Master replied, regarding Crowley with an insulted gaze. "It's intended to be a study in torture. I thought the audience here, of all places, would appreciate it." He pouted immaturely as he finished speaking, crossing his arms over his chest as if the posture would help justify his utter lack of taste.

"Well, for the love of all things despicable, stop torturing _us_. We are the ones supposed to be exerting it, not subjected to it!" Crowley retaliated, his voice nearly squeaking with the incredulity he expressed at the ludicrousness of the Master's idea.


	2. Chapter 2: No Class

"I suppose the King of Hell has a point," Voldemort observed coolly from his bar stool. "Put something else on, Time Lord. Attempt to amuse me and the rest of our guests."

.

"Fine!" The Master pouted, making his most adorkable way, moving to shove the plug to the speakers back into the outlet. "I'll turn on something else…"

Crowley rolled his eyes, going to the bar where he nodded to the bartender, who wordlessly poured him another glass of Glenncraig.

Nursing his new glass of whiskey, he returned to his lounge seat to attempt to soothe his nerves.

"Don't stop! Believing! It goes on and on and—" The speakers now boomed as The Master thumbed the controls on the DJ stand.

"No," Crowley barked over the music. "This is supposed to be inspiration for the most diabolical among us! Not some pithy glurge fest!"

"But—" The Master protested.

"No buts. Something else!" Crowley shouted, making a nervous shrug as Voldemort stared coldly at him.

"As he says, _now_, Time Lord," The Dark Lord pressed, taking a slow sip of blood red wine from a fluted glass.

The Master grumbled as he switched soundtracks yet again.

"Carry on my wayward son—" The speakers now boomed.

"Oh, for the love of Hell!" Crowley shouted now, jumping up, face reddening rapidly. "What don't you get about decent music?! I am not listening to that drivel. Why, I might as well hang around those denim clad nightmares who so love pestering me on Earth! What good is this supposed 'Villains Club' if you lot are in charge of ambiance?! Class, this place has no class!"

The Master whimpered, pouting heavily now as he turned off this song as well.

"Enough!" A cold voice barked from across the room. Voldemort, Crowley turned to see, had stood from his stool, and was making his way over to them, the long black sleeves of his cloak wooshing through the air as he walked.

"You," He snarled, "have done quite enough for tonight. Now, unless next time you want to be the subject of a course in the use of the Cruciatus Curse, I'd suggest controlling yourself." The Dark Lord pointed his wand menacingly at The Master, who quivered ever so slightly under his gaze.

"Yes, yes of course, Your Darkness," the Time Lord muttered.

"And you, demon," he continued, turning now to Crowley, who was standing, slack-jawed at the display of dissatisfaction on the part of the usually impassive Dark Lord.

"Yes?" Crowley asked anxiously.

"You seem to have a better idea of appropriate arrangements for our little group. Next week, you will host us."

"Me?" Crowley asked.

"Yes. Anyone but him, really, but perhaps the setting of Hell will do us nicely for a change."

"Yes, yes, of course," Crowley stuttered nervously. "I will assure you, there won't be this nonsense to put up with..."


End file.
